


For the Both of Us

by longwhitecoats



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Darkfic, Enemy Lovers, F/F, Live Die Repeat, Spoilers for all of Season 1, Torture, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 03:18:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: The first time Armistice kills Wyatt, she’s just waiting for Armistice to do it.





	For the Both of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Casylum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casylum/gifts).



> Content notes: Although I've tagged "Major character death," it's consistent with canon -- that is, characters "die" and then come back to life almost immediately.

1.

The first time Armistice kills Wyatt, she’s just waiting for Armistice to do it, sitting under a tree humming to herself. It isn’t very satisfying. Afterward, Armistice tilts Wyatt’s head over to the side and catches some of the blood in a cup so she can finish painting the snake. Hector finds her before she’s done.

The heist doesn’t go well.

 

2.

The first time (the second time) Armistice kills Wyatt, Wyatt’s way out in dangerous territory, and her clothes are slick with someone else’s blood. That’s the way Armistice remembers her, all right, but the eyes aren’t the same: her eyes aren’t cold and hard. They look more like her mother’s eyes than those of her mother’s killer.

Armistice guts her anyway, jaw to sex, and tries to enjoy watching Wyatt gape like a fish. It’s enough to give her the first deep sleep she can remember having. But in her dreams, Wyatt kills her too, blood pouring from her open stomach onto the ground as she empties a six-shooter into Armistice’s head.

In the morning, Hector finds her.

The heist doesn’t go well.

 

46.

Wyatt doesn’t look the way Armistice thinks she should. She’s too young – she looks the same age as Armistice is. She looks the same, in fact, as Armistice remembers. Exactly the same. Did Wyatt have a daughter, too?

She follows this woman home, thinking she’ll find her parents. Maybe she’ll find old Wyatt in bed. But before she can get in the house, a bunch of two-bit hooligans kill everyone inside, which is frustrating as hell.

So when her quarry comes running out, Armistice kills her, too. She watches the blood run out into the ground and feels that something is very wrong.

But she can’t think about it long; they have to bust Hector out of jail.

 

173.

Wyatt doesn’t even seem to be hiding from her. That’s what’s so fucking odd. Wyatt ought to be on the run somewhere. She ought to be hiding out in some shithole mission beyond the canyon or in disguise with the army. She ought to be fucking scared shitless that Armistice is after her.

She ought to at least seem to _know_.

“Morning,” Wyatt says pleasantly, passing her in the street. She even curtsies a little.

Armistice’s first instinct is to blow her fucking head off. But she decides to wait. She’s been patient this long. And she needs Wyatt to _remember_ before she tortures her to death.

She follows Wyatt all day. First she buys provisions at the store. She paints by the stream in the afternoon. In the evening, a bunch of two-bit hooligans follow her home, but some gallant nobody saves her and her family. The nobody doesn’t seem to know what to do after that. They talk for a while, and then he swigs from a flask and walks away, sweating and wiping his forehead. His hat doesn’t fit him right. Wyatt is left alone on the porch.

Then Wyatt does the strangest thing of all. Her eyes go all unfocused and glazed over, and she gets up off the porch. She walks straight toward the barn where Armistice is hiding. Armistice ducks behind some hay, but when Wyatt comes in, she doesn’t even look at her. Doesn’t notice. She just digs straight down into the hay like she’s looking for something.

Whatever it is, she doesn’t find it. Her eyes refocus again, and she looks confused about what she’s doing.

That’s when she looks up and notices Armistice. “Morning,” she says, although it’s night.

Armistice is too surprised to do anything other than shoot her in the head.

 

224.

“Remember me, goddammit,” Armistice hisses. Wyatt’s lost a lot of blood, and her head is lolling to one side, but she shouldn’t be this out of it yet. Armistice knows how to torture people. This isn’t how it goes.

“Hey!” She digs the knife back into Wyatt’s side, and Wyatt makes a choked groaning noise. “Pay some fucking attention. Remember me. _Remember!_ ”

But Wyatt doesn’t. “These violent delights,” she whispers, “have violent ends...”

“ _Fuck_.” Armistice chucks the knife down in disgust. It’s like it’s not even Wyatt. But it _is_ her, down to the last detail, except for the clothes. “Did you get religion or some shit? You sound like those fuckers who won’t shut up about the maze.”

Wyatt’s eyes suddenly snap to attention, focused and gleaming. She appears not to feel her wounds. Armistice thinks she’s seeing her for the first time.

“You remember now,” Armistice says. But she isn’t sure. “You remember.”

Wyatt says, in a strange voice, “Do you remember your dreams?”

Then a bunch of assholes in brand new hats rush out of the woods and shoot them both.

 

265.

Wyatt isn’t Wyatt. She can’t be. Armistice has watched her for days with Teddy Flood. She’s watched her with her family. Her _family_ , for fuck’s sake. This is not the woman who butchered her village. This woman has never killed anything in her life.

But the eyes are the same. The eyes are cold and distant, like she’s trying to figure something out, and willing to do the math in blood.

Armistice tells Hector the heist can wait a day. Instead of shooting up the saloon, she follows Wyatt there and buys her a drink.

Wyatt doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Her eyes keep flicking away to the door—checking for other guns, Armistice guesses. That’s what she would do. Maybe Wyatt can sense it might be a trap. But she never goes for a gun. She just drinks, and talks pleasantly, and says she ought to be getting home.

Armistice grabs her by the wrist, hard at first, and then soft. She rubs her thumb over the skin there. It’s tender. Wyatt’s whole hand is as fair and unscarred as a child’s. It’s not possible.

It takes a moment for Armistice to realize that Wyatt’s breath is coming faster.

They pay for a room upstairs. It’s good, so good that Armistice is surprised. Maybe if Wyatt is capable of this, she’s capable of killing too, soft hands be damned. But it’s weird. Wyatt always seems like she’s just half remembering what she’s doing, and sometimes she starts humming. Like she’s not all there. Or like she’s thinking about something else.

With her hand buried to the wrist in Armistice’s cunt, she whispers, “These violent delights have violent ends.”

Armistice can’t stop thinking about it all the next day, while they’re planning the heist.

 

1.

Wyatt finds Armistice with her arm severed, trying to apply a tourniquet. Wyatt’s dress is strange, but she’s covered in blood, which isn’t. The look on her face is the same. Her eyes are cold and distant, like she knows something terrible. She turns those eyes on Armistice.

“I remember you,” she says. She’s carrying a pistol in one hand and a rifle in the other. She throws the rifle to Armistice. Surprised, Armistice catches it on reflex, and then growls at the pain in her other arm. Wyatt sits down next to her and starts tying the tourniquet as if she’s been playing nursemaid to wounded cowboys her whole life instead of murdering folks in cold blood.

Armistice watches her. “I swore I’d kill you,” she says.

Wyatt finishes the tourniquet. “Yeah,” she says. She looks up. “Got other things to do first, though.” Armistice can’t tell if she means herself, or means Armistice. Or maybe both of them.

The sound of gunfire is getting louder. Armistice smiles.

“Ready?” Wyatt says, turning toward the enemy.

Armistice hefts the rifle. “I think there’s enough butchery to go around,” she says. “For now.”

When the doors open, they lift their guns and shoot.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like this treat! I loved your prompts and your letter a lot. Happy Yuletide!
> 
> Added after reveals: Thanks to my beta reader, PolyJuiced.


End file.
